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 Apr 2017
r
When I come home at night
I lock my doors
and draw my shades
like an allegory of something
long forgotten that itches
six inches deep
I turn my old radio on
and a song is sung
like a toothache
from sometime in the past
I set another place at the table
don't ask me why
for the same reason there are
no longer any shotguns
or guitars in my house
but there is lotion for my hands
each blister another
bloodshot moon
my yawn a blessing in disguise
I search the bookshelves
I built from lumber
from the tumbled down barn
I read books the dead light
their stoves with
and some that howl
like a pine on a ridge
and all these maps
these photographs
I wasted nails on
when they hung on the wall
but I'm tired of mending
all the small holes
so I leave them there
open and empty
to remind me where
the heart goes.
 Mar 2017
Philip Lawrence
Boardwalk beach goers
Strolled in ball caps
And in wide-brimmed hats
And in flip flops
And in cover-ups casually tied over low-slung bikinis
Lining the railing of the weathered pier
Eyes half closed, hands folded, heads atilt
Shoulders squared to a fading sun
A familiar form among the silhouettes
Twenty years hence
A cascade of raven hair
A billowing summer dress
My single breath
Then across rutted planks
To finally slake the thirst for another and
Be free of the malfeased heart
The lilt of perfume
Light, breathless, familiar
Transported back through time
To burn white hot again
Only to blanch at the precipice
Before the gray water
Silent
 Feb 2017
Isabelle
•••
*City sounds, city lights
Chaos, hustles and bustles
Amidst the busy street
I saw you, only you
In a world of deafening sounds
And blinding lights
There was you, only you
And in a world where people come and go
You choose to stop and stay
You ask me to stop and not let go
And in the name of love, I did
Another raw poem. With reference to https://m.facebook.com/ThePhilippineSTAR/photos/a.134754620011561.30607.134752476678442/757664594387224/?type=
 Jan 2017
brandon nagley
O' agrestrial daisy, don't lose hope; for mine love is not fading. Ague hast hit me, thirsting to touch just one finger from thy hand.

Im a child within a man;

Im weak, hurting, eyes worn,
Drowned in no time,
One pocket and a dime,
As I seek out thy soul,
Mine soul wails and mourns.

Seeking a vessel, to sail the sea's,
I'd do anything, to get to mine queen;
Anything tis, tis I'd do, even if still far, I love thee mine muse.

Dost thou not seest, mine heart beating quick; it quiver's, it aches,
From the fears that I get.

The fears tis I get, to be thine own best, even in mine sorrows,
Darkness, distress.

I smile to impress, to show thee warmth, because O' how I love thee; even in mine own hurt.

Even in mine own pain, with crooked teeth, and an ancient way; im a soul of the past, not one of today.

When thou art cold, mine hair wilt be thy quilt, when the world try's to hurt thee, I'll take all it's filth.

When the cloud's overcome thee, I shalt be thy sunlight; when thou only knowest wrong, I'll make it all right.

When the bird's no longer chirp, i'll be that baby bird; that whisper's it loves thee, even in all of it's hurt.

©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©earl jane nagley dedication
agrestrial: pertaining to something that grows wild.
Mine:my.
Ague: a mild fever. Chills shakes with cold.
Hast : has.
Thou:you.
Wails: crying out in pain.
Tis: it is.
Vessel: large boat.
Muse: person or personified force who is the source of inspiration for a creative artist.
Seest:see.
Wilt: will.
Thee: you.
Knowest: know.
 Jan 2017
Valsa George
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next

Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn

Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval

As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!

At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves

I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms

To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up

Is this what we call aging?

Or is it

The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
I don't know if it is a poem or a simple narration! But this can be read like a story. Life presents so many such interesting scenes if we are watchful ! Observing children's artless behavior is always a pleasure!
We do not have to bleed,
To know that blood
Runs through our veins,

We do not have to cry,
To know that our hearts
Feel all different kinds of pain.

We do not have to be artists,
To know that our souls
Sing to the tune
Of their very own,
Individual, unique song,

Just like,
We do not have to see God,
To know that he has been with us
All along!

By Lady R.F ©2017
 Dec 2016
Little Bird
I wish you wouldn't look for me in my poems
Contrary to popular belief,
I wish you would look for yourself in them
The cloth I gave it as cover for chill
is lying still.

Christmas eve was its last night.

Not that I knew
when picked it up
and gave it back
to the cold night.

I'm still holding it
heavy and invisible
on my heart
as my eyes repeat the scene
of crows pecking out its eyes
the head rolling on the earth
eyes closed.

I close my eyes
scared life could be so thin a thread
barely holding
and incredibly uncertain.
I am sad beyond words, my kitten Laloo died mysteriously sometime last night. I'm sorry if it spoils your joy of Christmas.
p.s. thanks friends, you really helped me to bear, grateful to you all.
 Oct 2016
Richard Riddle
(repost)

The color of your skin, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your language, or accent, does not tell me
  what kind of person you are-
Your creed does not tell me,
  what kind of person you are-
It is you, that shows me, what kind of person you are!

copyright: richard riddle 04-08-2014
 Oct 2016
phil roberts
My words and my poems
Are no more than explanations
And embellishments
My means of expression
For my life is my "art"
It's what I am and what I write
It's why I need to write
To make sense of the things
I've seen and done
And there are times when
I think I've done far too much
Then, in deep contemplation
I realise I could have done more
And that kind of inner debate
And discussion with myself
Are a large part of my life
Which becomes my version
Of something like "art"

                                         By Phil Roberts
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